


Mercy

by djinnj



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AU, Aleksander Lukin (cameo), Eastern Front, European Theater, Gen, Kidnapping, Mission Fic, Niko Constantin (cameo), Steve Rogers (cameo) - Freeform, The Red Room, Toilet humor, WWII, antagonists to friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djinnj/pseuds/djinnj
Summary: What if Natasha was born in 1922 and the Black Widow program began earlier, early enough for her to be active and an operative in WWII? What if she was sent to kidnap a certain sidekick? Let's see what happens. 616 comics AU.(I wanted to write a screwball comedy. I planned to write a screwball comedy. Canon threw WWII Poland at me. This is not a screwball comedy.)Written for the 2019 Marvel Reverse Big Bang forart by jayjayverse. Go look at it; it's so beautiful!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2019





	1. Trav'lin' Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mercy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/545680) by Jayjayverse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/fGwDccJ_ODo

_Occupied Warsaw, March 1943, above a disused draft horse stable._

Bucky was alone for the first time in weeks and weary down to his bones. He let himself be grateful to have a closed door, the bare mattress, and a window, glassless but with actual shutters. It was a palace compared to curling up in his coat between some crates, or pillowing his head on a tree root with a canopy of leaves to shelter him. His splinter of the commando unit had been tasked with sneaking into Warsaw and connecting with the Home Army and other resistance forces, infiltrating into the Ghetto if possible and sharing intelligence and training. This place, these people fighting against incalculable odds, twice invaded and still determined, they weighed on his conscience as he left them behind. But his mission was to move on to the next place he was sent, somewhere he might do some secret good above the measure of one man's gun. His heart was full of things he would have to confront if he ever got home, but he pushed it out of his mind with the skill of long practice. Compartmentalization worked on all levels of covert operations.

He had successfully made contact with Pinky and tomorrow, early, they were to extract themselves and reconnoiter just outside the city with the rest of their splinter. From there they would head out to join back up with Steve and the rest of the Howlies currently sleeping in a fine spring rain in the countryside on a similar mission with the Gray Ranks. 

He took off his boots but it was chilly enough not to undress and even the scant warmth of his domino was worth putting on. He flexed his toes luxuriantly, curled up in his jacket under his overcoat and an old horse blanket and like any seasoned campaigner of eighteen, he dropped off to sleep immediately. Pinky would be joining him at dawn and he needed to be rested.

Bucky's dream was a nonsensical mixture of walls covered in barbed wire, snow, and his mother's apple cake when something cut through his exhaustion and he awoke. Something had changed in the room. A shift in the air, the sense of a body that should not be there, the press of a muzzle against his temp-.

He exploded upward but just as quickly was put back down again. All thoughts of being able to overwhelm a much smaller opponent and wrest away the weapon was completely blasted by their agility and the strength of their thumb jammed threateningly against his carotid, as well as by the gun they still had pointed at his head. His watering eyes made out a slight female form in the dim light from the unshuttered window.

"You will come with me." Her voice was low and her accent was if anything the most disturbing part of this entire interlude. She sounded American but a little off, rehearsed and strangely formal. He would have guessed she was Canadian, but he had fought alongside Canadians and she sounded strange compared to them, too. It was like being menaced by an advertisement for Ivory soap.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" He blurted out, making no move to follow her command. Her lips tightened in the half shadow and she raised the gun slightly, clearly offering to pistol whip him again. 

"Alright, alright. You gonna get off of me or am I supposed to carry you?" He sat up as she backed away, taking his service pistol and knife with her, and he groped for his boots wishing he had kept a knife in one. "You got a light or am I supposed to do all this in the dark?" 

Silence, and he sighed, muttering _I guess the dark it is_ as he bent down to lace up his boots. He managed block her view and tuck his code book into a fold of the horse blanket when he retrieved his drab overcoat and pulled it on. Raking a hand through his hair before he slapped on his nondescript cap, he grabbed his pack and slung it over one shoulder. 

"Alright, now what?" 

She nodded toward the door and he was secretly relieved she did not expect him to scale the building as she apparently had. "You will disarm the trap." 

He was not sure how she could see it in the poor light, but he went ahead and felt for the tension wires he had rigged. They were unlikely to kill someone, but they were sharp and a nasty delay was all he had intended. He left the wires in disarray around the door.

Much to his displeasure she had pulled a pair of handcuffs from some mysterious location on her person and was waiting with them when he finished. His pack on his back and his hands restrained in front of him, she gestured for him to proceed out the door ahead of her. 

His mind was racing as he made his careful way down the stairs into the curfew dark city. Getting caught by the Nazis in Warsaw was disastrous and not just in terms of his personal well-being.

He thought this all the way until she pushed him into the shadows to avoid an Order Police patrol. He reassessed his assumptions about her in the slowly warming predawn light. Compact, graceful, with her hair gathered in a businesslike knot and dressed in anonymous dark coveralls, she could have been any age from sixteen to thirty-six. Her face was unblemished, smooth, beautiful he could easily say, but expressionless except when she looked at him like he was a particularly inconvenient piece of luggage. Now that he could make out the fire red of her hair, the color seemed unexpectedly jolly. 

"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a barely there undertone as she pressed the two of them into a space barely big enough for one. The only thing preventing him from wrestling control of the gun away from her was the passing Nazi patrol she was observing with intense focus.

This just earned him a hand across his mouth, although it did not linger. Quick as lightening, she pushed him around the corner and through a doorway into a deserted business, the door unlatched and the hallway filled with trash. She pushed him into an office full of scattered papers and retrieved a bundle of cloth from under a desk.

"Your papers, I know you have them. And take off the mask." She wrapped a light scarf around her neck, the pistol on him unwavering as he awkwardly felt in the inner pocket of his jacket. He put his forged papers on the table next to her and then stood in the far corner when she pointed for him to do so. The room was too cluttered with furniture for him to reach her before she picked up her gun again which was surely her intention; meanwhile taking off his cap and domino and then getting the cap back on again and his mask in his pocket was its own ridiculous byplay. So he watched as she pulled on a wig full of short blond waves and pinned it into a simple fashion that somehow changed the shape of her face. She pulled a German uniform greatcoat over her clothes, buttoning and belting it firmly and fluffing up the scarf to fill the collar. 

"Are you really not going to tell me what's going on?" He could finally get a good look at the pistol she handled so competently at least. "Look, you obviously know who I am, and somehow I don't think you scavenged that gun you keep waving around. So you're Soviet, right Comrade? So what's the deal? Last I checked we were supposed to be allies."

She ignored him as she looked over his papers and then folded them and put them in her pocket. Then she came to him, unlocked his cuffs, made him remove his pack, and then cuffed him again. 

"You're really chatty, aren't you?" He griped, both intrigued and annoyed. 

She looked him straight in the eye, unblinking as she handed him his pack and a folded blanket. He squirmed a little, strangely uncomfortable as she turned, still holding his eyes, and motioned for him to precede her. He gratefully broke the eye contact, curiosity getting the better of them as she directed him out the back into an alley where a German military repainted Punch motorcycle fully equipped with a sidecar and spare fuel canister waited. 

"You have got to be kidding." He looked at her shocked. "Where the hell are you taking me?"

She ignored him again, making him get into the sidecar and then wedging his pack onto his lap and draping the blanket over his hands to hide the cuffs, effectively tucking him into the sidecar like a pot pie. He wriggled a little, settling the pack more comfortably and shifting the blanket until he could grab the bar. She pulled a helmet and goggles out of the back and effectively anonymized herself. 

Dawn was blushing pink and blue with songbirds finding their voices as the sky lightened. It was incongruously beautiful over the stricken city as they sped for what he realized was the western checkpoint to exit the city. Even at this hour, the checkpoint was busy with supply wains, shifting military personnel and materiel, as well as what civilian activity was permitted. That was why he and Pinky had planned to take exactly this exit later in the morning, trying to blend in with the approved traffic coming in and out of the city. He pulled his cap low over his face and scrunched down, pretending to doze. Whatever his mysterious kidnapper had planned, capture by Nazis was not one of them. He could wait to challenge her again until they were clear of the city patrols.


	2. The Jitterbug Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHBSgRue-O8

_Traveling rapidly west through the Polish countryside, about 40mi outside of Warsaw._

Bucky was still internally reeling as they sped down the road. The checkpoint had had a Prussian soldier checking their papers and his kidnapper had begun chattering with him in dialect, none of which Bucky was able to catch. Their brief conversation appeared to be entertaining and the guard entirely charmed as he explained to his fellows that they were 'on approved business' and waved them on through. If the soldiers had looked twice at him, he would eat his hat.

The engine was too loud for easy conversation even had she been inclined to indulge him in any, so aside from puzzling over his bizarre situation there was little to do but wait and observe. Unfortunately, this was incredibly boring and his tired bones and disturbed night wanted more than anything to nod off. So, despite how little they could hear each other, he began to talk at her, rattling on about anything and nothing just to keep himself awake.

"-Who knew cows practically have eyes in the back of their heads? Gabe's not going to forget any time soon, I can tell you-. "

"-Of course Dum Dum had to rip off his shirt and that was the end of any reasonable conversation-."

"-Alderman tried to get us to admit to owning the turnips but we didn't even have to lie when we told him it was-."

About an hour and a half into their strange journey, he began to squirm and shift, getting progressively more obvious about it as time passed.

"You aren't even the first person to have kidnapped me, you know. Most talkative, though. Can't seem to shut you up." He shifted again and clamped a hand further back on the edge of the sidecar, his other hand tightly clasping his wrist above the cuffs. "I don't even know what to call you. 'Hey you' seems kinda rude, but it's all I've got right now. So 'hey you' if you don't want to get up close and personal to what field rations do to a body, you'll pull over." He squirmed a little more violently and then put some volume into it. "Hey! Pull over, I gotta piss!"

It was not the most refined way of getting his message across but it at least garnered a response. She looked at him, face unreadable behind the goggles, and he returned it with a look meant to convey 'and what're you gonna do about it' in the best Steve Rogers-has-unpleasant-truths-for-you impression he could manage. It appeared to have worked for once because they slowed and she pulled the motorcycle up into a small copse of trees.

"You going to let me out of these?" He asked, raising his hands in her direction. She pulled off her goggles apparently just to give him an unimpressed look, not at all diminished by the compression rings around her eyes.

"Alright, alright, well we'll both just have to live with the consequences." He awkwardly pushed his pack, still covered in the blanket, to fall over the side and levered himself out of the sidecar. He knelt down to rummage inside his pack until she tapped the pistol warningly against the rear fender. He slowly pulled out the Astounding Stories he'd been looking for and held it up. "You gonna deny a man the dignity of a good wipe?"

He grinned when she rolled her eyes, and pouted when she twitched her gun. He sighed and shoved it back into the top of the pack, dolorously buckling it closed again. A tightly folded Nazi propaganda rag dropped on top of his hands and he looked up at her. She had opened the carrier on the motorcycle and was stowing her wig and scarf.

"Can't think of a better use for this. I'll just be over there." He walked into the trees until he heard the tap of her gun again and chose a likely shrub. Quickly, with the leaves blocking her view, he tore off a stack of rough squares of newsprint, folded it down into a compact wad, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Then, since he was there and life was uncertain, he took care of business as well.

He sauntered back around the shrubbery, whistling obnoxiously and offered her the newspaper with as grandiose flourish as he could manage while still cuffed. She accepted it wordlessly, of course, and handed him an open canteen.

"So, really, what's going on? This is all very dramatic and everything, but I've got places to go and people to see." Silence, as she took back the canteen and handed him a German half ration, the tin of mystery meat already keyed open. "Hey, do they really put raw onions in the Soviet chow or is that just a story?" Silence. "So what should I call you? We know 'hey you' works and everything, but it's not really great in a crowd."

She looked around as if to say what crowd?.

"You never know, we might get stopped by a patrol or there might be another person wherever it is you're taking me, since I don't think you're doing this for my good looks and charm." Nothing. He had had more luck flirting with an MP that one time, and he had gotten thrown in lockup for half a day.

He scooped up some of the potted meat with a rusk of bread and gnawed on it. With no conversation other than his own and an uninspiring meal on damp grass, they finished quickly and were soon speeding down the road again. Unnoticed by her, a tiny boat folded out of Nazi newsprint dropped onto the road behind them.

He folded the little boats by touch under the cover of the blanket and dropped them as opportunity arose until he ran out of paper. They continued west past hamlets and empty farmland, taking small roads and crossing fields to avoid traveling abreast Nazi convoys. When they could not avoid the main roads their thin veneer of German cover held for the few tense minutes they would share the road. They stopped to refuel with the spare tank and he estimated despite the rough going that they had traveled almost 200 miles. Not long after, they were allowed through another checkpoint on the strength of their forged papers and he realized they were north of Poznan, skirting the city in a wide arc. It became easier and easier to believe that they were aiming for Berlin, but why? And why in this strange underhanded way? Was she working alone? Why, if she was helping the Nazis, would she avoid them when she could and lie her way past their guards when she could not? He was not as famous as Steve, but he was certainly a known propaganda subject for the US. While most of his real work never reached the public, some of his more acceptable exploits had been embroidered upon for wide dissemination. She could have had him locked up and tortured in minutes without leaving Warsaw.

By the time they stopped for the night, any illusion Bucky had of escaping the moment the cuffs theoretically came off was put paid by the betrayal of his own body. He was so stiff the last twenty miles had turned his lower spine into a hot poker trying to remove itself from his back every time they hit a bump. His knees would barely unbend and he felt like a collection of badly misassembled bones. The only sign of discomfort his kidnapper gave was to comprehensively stretch after she dismounted the motorcycle.

She had driven them far off the road, near a fallow field and what appeared to be an abandoned shack, half the roof falling in. Instead of continuing on to the structure, however, she parked them in the trees out of sight of the road.

"A perfectly good roof, even if it has holes in it, and a floor and some walls, and you want to sleep on rocks. That makes about as much sense as any of the rest of this." She ignored his comment as he slowly tried to unfold himself from the sidecar. She unlocked his cuffs, but his relief was short-lived when she immediately hooked one of them over the bar of the sidecar, shackling him to the motorcycle. She walked away as he was still expressing his extreme displeasure, disappearing into the gloom overtaking the woods.

Even having one hand free was better than nothing, however, and he made the most of it. He stretched as well as he could and dug through his pack, pulling out his sewing kit to retrieve his emergency cigarette. By the time she returned, he was leaning against the side of the sidecar, 'reading' his pulp magazine by the light of his flashlight while finishing his smoke.

She took his flashlight, turned it off, and stowed it in the motorcycle's carrier, locking it with what he considered an unnecessary flourish as he stubbed out his cigarette. Then, she uncuffed him from the sidecar, locked his hands behind his back for the first time, and pushed him in front of her. He could barely see his footing and without his arms he had to rely on her hand on his upper arm more than he would have liked to keep from tripping. Her grip was hard and steadying, though, as they hustled up a rough path and he realized they would be spending the night in the shack after all. By the time they got to the hut he was breathless from trying to keep his balance at their quick pace.

"Hey, if we're going to spend so much time together, I think I should get to know your name." She unlocked his hands, taking the cuffs off entirely and handing him the ever present blanket, before pushing him hard so he backed into the small structure.

"Black Widow" she said to him just as she closed the door, leaving him in the dark.

"Hey!" He shoved at the door but, while it moved, it would not open far enough for him to get out. He threw himself bodily at it but, if anything, it moved even less. She had apparently used his handcuffs to hold the door and then wedged something in place to secure it firmly against his escape.

He grumbled and looked around in the faint light the gaping hole in the roof let through and realized he was in a farmer's shed. There was nothing of use in the little hut, not even the broken handle of a farm implement. The floor was hard packed dirt and there was the pervasive smell of manure, but it was comparatively dry and he was free to move around for the first time all day.

In his hands, the blanket felt oddly heavy and he realized there was a canteen of water, another German half ration kit and the entirely unexpected treasure of a packet of dried apple slices. She utterly baffled him. To all appearances she was taking him to his doom, but she was doing it in the most roundabout and inefficient way possible.

The next morning dawned bright and clear and birdsong awoke Bucky from a surreal dream about goats. Unsure when she would return for him, he pushed himself up and grimly set to stretching to warm up his sore muscles and stiff joints. And then he waited.

He drank some water and re-examined the shed, finding a pile of dirty burlap bags and a shard of pottery. He tested the latter against his palm and discarded it as too blunt to be of use. He paced out the space, no more than five in either direction and waited.

He looked at the shelving at the back wall and considered whether it would bear his weight to climb up to the compromised roof. The attempt left his hands full of splinters and with a broken shelf. He tested out the crumbled board to see if it was a suitable bludgeon but too much of it was spongy with rot. So he waited.

He picked out the splinters with a pin from his sewing kit and used a little water and the corner of his shirt to clean out his hands as best he could. He waited some more.

Dawn was well past when rattling and a loud thunk outside the door indicated that she had returned. He tucked himself against the wall when the door was yanked open, but when he closed his hand around her wrist, she twisted like an eel, spun him around and then flipped up over his back and had him kneeling on the ground with his arm pulled up and painfully close to dislocating before he could properly register she had moved.

He was starting to realize that she allowed him in close quarters not out of any naïve over-dependence on her gun but because she was much better at hand to hand fighting than anyone he had yet encountered, with the possible exception of Steve. He had never seen anyone move the way she did. Her use of a gun at all was starting to look more like a baited trap, tempting the unwary to underestimate her. The name she had called herself the night before suddenly seemed less symbolic and more literal.

"What did you do?" She asked, severe.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The motorcycle, what did you do to the motorcycle?" She applied a little more pressure to his arm and he realized there was the distinct aroma of engine grease.

He grunted in pain and said through his teeth, "I don't know what you're talking about! Last I knew it was fine!"

She dropped his arm and stepped back, looking at him with disapproval as he flexed the offended limb. Her hands were streaked with oil, some of which had transferred to him. "You will fix it."

He stood up and did his best to look confused, which was not difficult. "Look, lady, Widow, whatever you are, I have no idea what's wrong with the motorcycle!"

To say she did not believe him would be an understatement. By the looks of the tools and greasy rag as well as the disturbed grime pattern she had already taken out the starter and cleaned it to no avail. He hummed and carefully unscrewed parts, cleaning them before reattaching them. He disconnected and reconnected hoses and leads and generally shined up the machine with loving attention. It was entirely useless. The motorcycle sat as inert as a stone.

By the time he finally declared he had done everything he could, she appeared resigned to their fate. The morning was well advanced when she finally divided the contents of the motorcycle carrier into their packs, making him shoulder most of the rations. She then cuffed his dominant hand to his own belt to his utter disgust and made him walk in front of her.

He decided it was the better part of valor not to ask about breakfast.

Some time later they were walking along a paved road that was a great improvement to the muddy fields she periodically made them cross. So far, the undergrowth on the verges was thick enough that the sound of approaching vehicles gave enough notice for them to drop off the road and under cover without incident. They ghosted along at a brisk pace, covert except for his insouciant chatter.

"I know you can talk, so why don't you?"

"Because it frustrates you."

He turned to gape at her. "She speaks!"

She rolled her eyes and pointed at the road ahead of them. "More walking, less talk. You do nothing but talk."

Needless to say he continued to do so. The next hour saw him redouble his efforts.

"Black Widow, is that a title or a description or a directive?" He could swear he saw a ghost of a smirk cross her face but they were moving fast and he could not be sure.

"So, are you ever going to tell me where we're going and why? And why you had to drag me along?"

"The answer is so obvious you shouldn't have to ask."

"You've got to be kidding." He wracked his brain. "I can't think of a single good reason for you to grab me."

"You wouldn't have come otherwise."

"Not like this I wouldn't!"

"You see, obvious."

He groaned.

They stopped for a break and some food in a little open patch surrounded by pine trees, the thick carpet of needles deadened their footsteps but the clear calls of birds rang out high above them. Gnawing on more ration crackers, he looked limpidly sincere and tried again.

"Look, you clearly aren't in this to kill me and we're supposed to be fighting for the same thing, right? I don't see how this is supposed to help you. We're on the same side!"

She tilted her head as she looked at him, face unreadable. She nodded as if she had made a decision. "Alright, I'll tell you. You are a goodwill gift from Colonel Vasily Karpov to Johann Schmidt."

The crackers scattered all over the ground as he leaped to his feet, outraged. Even the birds fell silent but she continued to sit on her heels, coolly eating. That she did not even stand or reach for the pistol in her holster just made him angrier.

"That's what this is? Another Soviet back stabbing? I can't believe Karpov would do this." He balled his hands into fists as she took a sip of water, set down the canteen, and then slowly stood.

"You're a piece in a game played by more powerful men than you. Intelligence tells me Schmidt is currently in Austria and nowhere near where we're going; I'm handing you over to an underling and you will, I'm sure, escape relatively easily. Preserving this back channel has strategic value, but the colonel wouldn't give him any true advantage. He hates Schmidt even more than you do."

"Doesn't look like it much from here. And Karpov's the one who didn't listen when a tactical genius gave him a plan of attack; he blamed everyone but himself when his men got slaughtered. I'm supposed to trust his plan? Yeah, right."

"You can trust my plan."

"So this whole idiot thing was your idea?!"

"The concept came from my superiors; I have full control over the specific execution."

"Execution is right. Look, Widow lady, I admit I'm good, but you're planning to hand me over in an enemy stronghold with no backup and just leave me there so your boss can make nice with the fucking Red Skull. What are you doing while all this happens, taking tea with fucking Hitler?"

"I'll be infiltrating their laboratories and stealing their rocket research." Her lips pinched. "Our rockets are better, but Hydra communiques have been boasting about innovations in thruster technology using an unnamed new power source."

He was speechless. Worse, he found her logic starting to appeal. He realized her American accent had become smoother, as well, and more familiar. A chill crawled up his spine as he realized she sounded more _like him._

"I told you, this back channel has strategic value. Doing this, you help us all with only some bodily risk to yourself."

"This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard!"

"It has its rough spots, but I can work with it."

Bucky growled in frustration. "Do I get to know where we're going, at least?"

"Peenemünde."

A branch rustled. "That's going to be a problem." Steve said as he stepped into their small clearing.

"Hello, Captain." She was infuriatingly serene. "You must see the value of my mission's goals."

Steve stepped closer and held out his hand. She retrieved the handcuff key and dropped it into his palm.

"Cap, back me up here. This is nuttier than a Fifth Avenue bar!" Bucky rubbed at his wrist as Steve tossed cuffs and then key back to her.

"How long did you know we were following you?" He asked her, squeezing Bucky's arm in acknowledgement before turning so they were shoulder to shoulder.

"I was relying on it. We'd have been able to keep ahead of you if the motorcycle hadn't mysteriously failed to start." She cocked an eyebrow at Bucky.

"You don't get to be mad at me about that. You dragged me into this crazy plan without a please or a thank you."

"Well, Captain? As the tactical genius here, what is the problem with my plan?"

"Why can't you infiltrate directly? You're clearly skilled; Bucky here seems like an unnecessary complication."

"Target of opportunity. The Hydra section of the base is closed access and ultra high security. Without clearing the labs, I would leave evidence of my presence."

Steve had a small crease between his brows.

"You don't agree with her," Bucky noted in case she was in doubt.

Steve's expression folded further into disapproval. "Any point about the importance of the target doesn't matter. Your orders have you 200 miles south of this location and you're not here by choice. Kidnapping is not an acceptable expedient to setting up a joint mission, and I don't appreciate being used as a diversion. That's something you do to an enemy, not an ally, and certainly not a friend." He turned the full force of his I-am-so-disappointed-in-you look on her, and Bucky was pleased to see her at least slightly taken aback. "As a separate issue, if Karpov bothered to talk to his allies, he would have been informed that British Intelligence already has an informant and plans for the base. We can't be seen there."

"Can their informant get out the plans for the power source?"

"No, they don't have that kind of access. But the base is on borrowed time."

Her expression finally thoroughly cracked, furrowing with deep concern. "And yet we need to know what Hydra is doing. If they truly have a new power source and are able to use it, blowing it up gets us no closer to countering it. They'll move the research to a new location and we'll have to find them all over again."

"Shit." She and Steve turned to look at him. "Shit fucking shittery shit fuck...." Bucky took a deep breath. "So how exactly do you want me to time my escape?" He was too caught up in the revelation that he wanted this mission to fully appreciate the surprise on her face.

"You're not going, Buck. Not with someone who thinks you're a toy soldier on a board." He pinned her with an unblinking look, disapproval palpable. "I don't risk the lives of my people in petty revenge, and I don't make other people do it for me. This war is too important to play games and it takes more than a plan to be a leader of men. You earn their trust. You earn the lives they put in your care. Why should we, why should Bucky, who you attacked and chained and took away from his mission and his responsibilities trust you?"

She opened her mouth, but paused on the inhale, a slightly confused look in her eyes.

"Cap, it's important." Bucky said quietly.

"So's this. This war is full of important things to do and not enough soldiers to do them. I've sent you into harm's way daily, but never once have I taken you or the risks you face for granted. I'm your CO, not Karpov, and if he wants this so much, he can use his own people, not mine."

She looked at Bucky, frowning. "You agree with him, but you'd still do this?"

"We need to win this war; I'm going to do my part, whatever it takes."

She nodded, thoughtful, and then pulled herself up ramrod straight. "I apologize for the trouble to your persons and your mission. I deeply regret the harm I have caused and will perform whatever redress you require." She nodded sharply.

Bucky looked at her and looked at Steve who had that little crease back between his eyes. "What, that's it? What do you mean 'redress'?"

"I made an error; reprisal is correct."

"But what are you going to do about the Hydra laboratory?"

"Per your intelligence, there's nothing I can do at this time without endangering an Allied mission. I will report to my superiors and await instructions."

Bucky pulled off his hat, scrubbed his head, and smashed it back on. "Cap, can I talk to you over there for a minute?" His voice was a little tight.

They walked a little distance away, turned slightly to foil lip reading, and used their best skulking-at-night undertones. Bucky still got the feeling that she could tell what they were saying.

"Alright there, Buck? It's good to see you in one piece."

"Yeah, I'm alright. She's a strange one. You get the feeling she'd let us, I don't know, shoot her or arrest her or something if she thought we were in the right of it?"

"She answers to Karpov. I thought he had limits, but this? This is not right."

"She's something else. Yesterday she sounded like an advert for cold cream and today she sounds like…." He shrugged.

"She sounds a bit like you."

"She didn't talk for most of a day, couldn't even get her name out of her so I jawed on. You know how it is. I didn't think she'd _use_ it."

"Too bad it makes her sound like a delinquent," Steve teased and Bucky shoved him on principle; it was like shoving a one ton horse. His mood sobered quickly, though.

"Are we really going to let Hydra escape with secret rocket engine research?"

"How much of her story do you believe?"

Bucky took a moment to really think about it. "If this is the truth, and let me tell you if it's a lie she needs a lot more practice because it's ridiculous, then it explains why she hasn't gotten nasty. She's withheld information, coerced me at gunpoint, and wiped the floor with me in close quarters fighting when I initiated, but she's been doing the bare minimum to keep me in line. What's that thing you say? Occam's razor. And if she's still holding something back, I trust my chances at figuring it out."

"I don't like it."

"You'd do it if she'd grabbed you."

Steve let this pass without comment but there was a sheepish look in his eye that acknowledged the double standard. "The plan as it stands is not an option. Even if we don't hit the base to 'rescue' you, your public capture and escape would compromise the informant's intelligence. The only way to do this is get in and get out without being seen. And if that were possible, I'm guessing it would already have been done. She doesn't seem the kind to waste time on unnecessary variables and I don't believe she really needs you. She took you because she was told to take you."

They both looked at her standing at parade rest, politely ignoring their conversation.

"Do we really want to see what Karpov would do with the research if he can get away with keeping the rest of the Allies in the dark about it?" Bucky could tell Steve had already thought of that and followed him back over to the woman who called herself after a deadly spider.

"If we do this, it is with the strict understanding that you and Bucky are coequal members of this team. You order him around, he'll order you around right back. And, you'll share the intel with us. Equal partners and he comes back with the same information you do. Those are my requirements." He waited for her to agree before he continued. "And we should know who we're working with. You obviously know who we are; we should have the same advantage."

"I am Natalia Alianova Romanova, and my designation is Black Widow." There was a hint of pride in her voice.

"Alright Romanova, what's the situation on the ground?"

"Each entrance to the Hydra division is under its own guards and unrecognized persons are shot on sight once inside. Sensitive areas are staffed in shifts and never without at least two people."

"Hang on, are you telling me you've already been inside? Not just the main base, but the Hydra areas?" Bucky's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

She looked as surprised as he felt. "Of course, how else would I know the laboratory can't be accessed by one person without leaving bodies behind?"

"But it can be done with two. Bucky's identity isn't the point; it's the distraction you need. Something to pull out personnel and cause confusion and inattention."

"Yes, but it would need to be significant to draw out Hydra from the labs, and anything of that magnitude would be suspicious. It was too impractical to time correctly, alone, and I wasn't approved a partner."

Bucky suddenly realized what Steve was thinking and he grinned. "You want them to suffer a little entropy."

"Exactly." He retrieved something small from a pocket and tossed it to her.

"The end of the HT leads from the motorcycle?" She looked at the bit of wire before stripping off the clip and pulling the two pieces apart. "You shorted out the leads with a pin. I should have seen that."

Bucky shrugged. "Leads short out all the time; all it takes is a flaw in the insulation. This works if you're in a hurry. I wouldn't do this there; nothing that leaves evidence behind."

"Alright, then we're agreed. I'll expect to see you back at the original rendezvous no later than five days from now, Buck. I have to get back to where I left the company. Your motorcycle is four miles that way, just off the road, hidden in some strange pine trees. Can't miss it. And Buck, don't get caught with these." Steve handed him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper before melting back into the woods.

She looked nonplussed. "Is he going to walk?"

"He's fast," Bucky said absently as he unwrapped the parcel. Inside were his domino, code book, and a neat coil of wire. He stashed them in his pack with satisfaction.


	3. Boogie Woogie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxuUJqUKXGI

_South of Groẞ Stettin, near the Crooked Forest._

"We're decided then," Romanova confirmed as they walked along the road through the pine forest. "We'll go in with the morning shift of civilian workers."

"Agreed, they won't be on as high alert then. Wow, Cap really wasn't kidding about the trees." 

They had arrived at a stand of pine trees that was much stranger than Bucky had anticipated. The trunks of the slender trees ran parallel to the ground for several feet before springing straight up again, all in the same direction in a bizarre static unison totally at odds to the other trees surrounding them. They easily found the motorcycle, looking much the same except for the addition of a second spare fuel can.

Opening the carrier revealed a generous stash of field rations, mostly German, a full canteen, and Steve's prized pocket stove, the only one currently in the European theater. Bucky could almost hear a choir of angels as he looked at the stove, a packet of instant _milchkaffee_ in his hands. 

Unexpectedly, she snorted a quiet laugh (a first!) and said, "We never finished our meal, and I need to adjust our papers while the light remains good." 

Not one to question his good fortune, Bucky set up the camp stove, cleaned out some old ration tins, and had water bubbling for coffee in an unreasonably short amount of time. He sat chewing on a handful of raisins as Romanova rested a notebook on the front of the sidecar and carefully doctored her work papers to include him. The brush she was using was miniscule, but then she was forging typeface. 

He waited until she lifted her brush before asking, "Won't they remember you? How many of those things do you have?"

She blew gently on the drying ink before carefully pressing along the letters with a tiny edged tool, creating indentations. "No, They won't remember me, and you're now officially my younger brother. It's not unheard of for families to share work papers." She turned the very genuine looking form so he could look it over, and then flipped it back to firmly rub at the new ink to weather it in. She looked critically at it before turning to their forged identity papers, delicately adjusting their details to be more closely aligned. "I only have that one for Peenemünde, but I have several different papers like the ones that I used to get us out of Warsaw. This one goes with the work papers; remember to call me 'Natalie' publicly and I'll call you 'Jan' as your papers have you. It's a much more reasonable name than 'Bucky'."

He exchanged a tin full of sweet milky coffee for his identity papers, suitably impressed at the skill exhibited in the small changes and noting the differences in case of questioning. "'Bucky' is perfectly reasonable when there are four other 'Jameses' in your grade school class, eleven at boot camp, and three in your current company." He tucked the papers into a pocket and settled in to really enjoy his coffee. "I'm guessing you haven't had that problem."

"No, there were never more than thirty of us at a time, and never any redundancies." The small details about her past that she would reveal were always a little off and he never quite knew what to say. Before the pause became uncomfortable, she continued "You may call me Natalia, and I'll call you James. I can't mistake you for any other James since you're the only one I know." 

He toasted her with his tin. "Natalia."

She toasted back. "James."

They finished quickly after that and distributed the contents of their packs into the carrier. 

"Let me guess, you're driving." He sighed, remembering how uncomfortable the sidecar was for extended journeys.

She dangled the goggles from her hand, and asked curiously. "Do you know the way?"

"Not as well as you do."

She handed him the goggles and helmet, hopping into the sidecar even as he looked at her in surprise.

"Continue northwest; I'll direct you."

There was much less talking now that he had stopped filling the air with nonsensical stories about the Howlies. The motorcycle was still very much a barrier to conversing below a shout, so they mostly made do with hand gestures for the practical matter of guidance. Two hours into their journey, the afternoon was advancing and they were soon to reach the Wolgast checkpoint. 

They chose to sleep outside Wolgast rather than proceed on. The Kröslin ferry would have taken them directly to the research facility but the security both at that ferry crossing and in the town was much more closely watched. Wolgast was by no means lax, but they were still able to find a run down barn on the outskirts of the town just as it began to rain. A single dairy cow and a few goats paid them minimal attention as they climbed into the hayloft. 

They carefully brushed an area clear of hay dust and lit the tiny camp stove just long enough to warm some tinned stew and each have a cup of coffee. The comfort of hot food was deeply satisfying despite the mediocrity of the flavors. Soon they were each rolled up in their coats with a supplemental blanket on a bed of straw. Out of the rain with a belly full of hot food and a mission in the morning, Bucky was unexpectedly content. Natalia was odd but good company when not actively inconveniencing him. 

"The answer to your question is 'yes'," she said quietly from her dark corner of the loft.

The straw rustled as Bucky shifted, curious. "Which question?"

"You asked if 'Black Widow' is a title, a description, or a directive. It's all three." 

Bucky fell asleep still trying to find a better response to that than 'sorry.'

Well before dawn, they arose in the coldest part of the morning and walked the motorcycle through puddles back to the road. By mutual agreement that Natalia's German was better, she put on the wig again and she used their original travel papers to pass through the Wolgast checkpoint and from there onto the ferry to cross to the island. Bucky did not think too hard about how difficult it would be to get off the island if they were made. Their only option was not to be made.

The entire north part of the island was taken up with the military research facilities, and as they drove on in the grey morning light, they could see the signs everywhere of rocket research. Pylons and test stands with elevated platforms surrounded by berms rose from the ground like stubby fingers. There were smokestacks for the rocket production and power plants, and transport rails radiating out from the facility like arms. 

In a shadowed alley in the disconcertingly picturesque old town of Karlshagen, Natalia changed the blond wig and helmet for a dark brown one and a kerchief, and the Nazi greatcoat for a shapeless drab raincoat of uncertain provenance. They stashed the motorcycle, leaving it with others like it where it was unlikely to raise comment. They would walk the rest of the way. 

She was correct, the guards did not recognize her. Their papers were examined as were everyone else's and unlike an unfortunate soul who was detained when their work papers did not have the most recent stamp, they were permitted into the compound. 

"Jan, I will take your lunch with me. Have a good day at work." 'Natalie' said to him in soft German, and patted him on the arm. With a tilt of her head she indicated the correct buildings, confirming what she had described to him the day before. And then she was walking briskly away, turning her feet a little to mask her gait.

Bucky walked with purpose in the opposite direction toward the motorpool. He put on a smile and touched his cap when a woman dressed like an office worker wished him a good morning. It was time to get to work.

7:46am - The garage was well staffed but apparently preparing for a great deal of activity later that day. He slipped on a smock and a mechanic pointed him to the engine oil and told him to top off all the light trucks. He took the opportunity of swiping a canister of diesel while he was at it, making sure the identifying label and color coded cap were hidden. Then he dutifully topped up the oil, added the occasional twist of wire into any battery that presented itself, and dirtied up a number of spark plugs by 'cleaning' them with a rag. He added a generous glug of 'gasoline' to a wide assortment of gasoline vehicles and then located a spare fuel can of gasoline, and did the same to a number of diesel engines for good measure. 

8:57am - He ditched the smock and detoured to the mens toilets, loitering a little until it was unoccupied. He wrapped the dirty rag from the garage around some sawdust from the same and flushed it down a toilet. Then he went to another toilet, wrapped a hand towel around some more sawdust and flushed it as well. He had to pause when someone came in, but he feigned intestinal distress and they quickly left again. He then flushed more sawdust 'sausages' down three more toilets before washing his hands, appreciative of the soap. He flushed the bar of soap and the paper bag from the sawdust down another toilet for good measure. 

9:22am - Looking at the time, he made his way to the quartermaster's warehouse, entering by way of the loading dock by the simple expedient of helping a driver unload a truck full of linens into the receiving area. He grunted sympathetically at intervals at the man's constant stream of petty griping about his co-workers. As he drove away, Bucky ducked into the rows of necessaries and comforts deemed essential to health and morale by the Third Reich. A little searching and he found a shelf of combs. He grabbed a paperboard box of them and continued to search the warehouse, opening windows a few inches here and there, and eventually locating an entire row of his goal, packed high in enormous cartons on wooden shelves that reached the ceiling. 

9:49am - Bucky looked around, bending a comb in his hands until the teeth began to break off. He dumped out the box of combs into a half empty carton of toilet paper and generously wadded up more of the paper to cover it all, ripping up and mixing in the paperboard box, and sprinkling the celluloid shards over all. He pulled out his sewing kit and threaded a needle, using it to pass the thin cotton thread through his restocked emergency cigarette at the midpoint. He tied the ends of the thread down across the opening so the cigarette was suspended directly over the pile. He made sure everything was secure and only visible when looking into the carton, and then he leaned in and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag to make sure it would burn well. 

10:04am - He located the mess hall and while refilling the coffee pots, filled several of the sugar dispensers with salt. No rationing sugar here, he thought sourly.

10:35am - Waste not, want not, he added the sugar to the gas tank of an officer's car parked near the mess hall. 

10:40am - He unscrewed a lightbulb in the hallway intending to put a coin in it so it would short when turned on that evening, but someone had already done so. He gently replaced the lightbulb, mentally saluted whoever it was, and moved on. 

10:45am - He located the mess hall lavatory and flushed a pair of socks stuffed with rolled oats down two of the toilets. Then, because life is uncertain, he took advantage of the running water and did his business in a third. Washing his hands, he slicked back his hair with a bit of water and then stashed his jacket and cap in a convenient cupboard of cleaning supplies. A distant alarm could be heard and he regretfully left the bleach where it was. 

11:12am - A random file folder he picked up off an unattended desk served as protective coloration in the communications building. He collected a few more folders and loitered until the hallway was clear. He took out the scrap of HT leads, still bridged with a pin and with the ends of the wires stripped for a good inch, held them carefully by the clip, and inserted them into a two prong power outlet. There was a sizzle pop before he pulled them out and stashed them back in his pocket. He could hear confused voices rising behind him as he walked away, people realizing the power was out in part of the building.

11:18am - He did the same with the administrative offices and then discarded the file folders in a random outbox.

By this point, people were milling about outside looking on at the smoke billowing from the windows of the warehouse. The news traveled quickly and the crowd swelled as gossip spread that the toilet paper had caught fire and was burning faster than the sprinklers could keep up. 

In this, Bucky was relying on human nature. Peenemünde was adjacent to the major ports of Swinemünde and Groẞ-Stettin. No toilet paper snafu or waterlogged warehouse would last more than a day or two before resupply. No, a toilet paper fire was _funny_ and no matter what they liked to think of themselves not even fascists were immune to a good bathroom joke and an excuse to malinger.

He had retrieved his cap and jacket and was loitering with everyone else, limiting himself to extremely brief comments to the people laughing and joking around him when she returned. 

"Jan, I have your lunch." 

"Natalie! Look!" He pointed at the fire and wiggled his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes, but they crinkled too with a small smile. 

"Come along, Jan." 

They walked out of the base unremarked as the fire brigade finally clanged noisily onto the scene. They quietly retrieved their motorcycle and retraced their steps without incident. 

Natalia drove them back past the outskirts of Wolgast before pulling up off the road behind a run down outbuilding. He got out and stretched.

"That went well!"

She took off the helmet and goggles and, reaching into her pocket, handed him a small Minox cartridge of film. "Your copy." 

"You gonna tell me how you did it?"

"They all wanted a _kaffee_ and you drew them out with a good excuse. Once their friends outside told them about it, it was simple. In, out, no problems." 

"I have a feeling you're leaving out a lot, but okay. So, now what?"

She had dismounted and opened the carrier to retrieve her pack. Quickly shedding the assorted outer layers of costuming, she soon stood revealed in a fitted black jumpsuit, much sleeker than anything he had seen her in before. It made her look taller, intimidating and cold until she smiled with her eyes and her dimples peeped out. 

"You'll take the motorcycle and return to your Captain per orders." She tucked her wig and a few ration kits into the pack, discarding the Nazi greatcoat to one side. "I'll take the ferry from Wolgast again, and make my way south to Swinemünde. From there I'll take a ship to Groẞ-Stettin. The panzer division there could use some entropy." She dimpled at him as she shouldered her pack.

"I have plenty of time to get back; can I give you a ride? How are you even going to pass the checkpoints looking like that?"

"Oh, I'll manage," she said, walking off. He blinked and it was as if she had evaporated between two steps. He was not at all clear how she contrived to disappear wearing all black, but then Steve did surprisingly well wearing the flag and a giant target, so what did he know.

Tucking the cartridge of film into his breast pocket and shoving his cap into the carrier, he put on the goggles, helmet and greatcoat. There was plenty of fuel and with a lighter load he should be able to get to the rendezvous days early.


	4. Epilogue: Sh-boom (sh-boom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMVQXZtUJrQ

_May 1954, a Red Room facility near Moscow._

Natalia did not enjoy Aleksander Lukin's company, but he was General Karpov's protegé and as such needed to be tolerated and judiciously flattered. He led her past the practice and equipment testing rooms into a heavy lift that quickly and silently dropped them several stories underground into the science division. 

"I am glad the General recalled you to Moscow. The new group of trainees will benefit from your experience and I have a new project, or you could call it a new old project, that requires your expertise." The pompous condescension of a man who had been a child when she first began active field service could not be overstated. He was another who always forgot that her smooth hands and unlined face came from the serum and not inexperience. In reality, she felt in each passing year another sliver of her soul withering away, even as her faith in her masters withered.

"Thank you for your belief in my abilities, sir. I will do everything I am required." 

He led her out of the lift past many heavy metal doors, each with a glowing red light that showed their locked status. They finally came upon one with the shutter drawn back from the reinforced glass insert, the light above it reflecting bloodily off the window's layers.

"The General's Wolf Spider program is not going well, but I am certain we have a much more viable candidate for the training. The technological advancements made in brainwashing in the last five years have-."

Natalia's hearing seemed to fill with shrill alarms drowning out whatever smug garbage Lukin was saying. There, in front of her, was Bucky Barnes, _James_ , in a cryostasis tube, the indicator lights showing it was in the final day of the warming process. The last she had seen him he had been grinning at her outside a German town wearing that ugly flat cap and offering her a ride. The last she had heard of him was of his death over the English Channel nine years ago. Here he was, a little older perhaps, his left arm an angular metal framework from the shoulder down. She focused back in on what Lukin was saying; it was suddenly imperative that she not miss a word. 

"- Agrees that the amnesia is a good basis for reprogramming since he retains his skills but is much more malleable than Constantin. He has only been initialized twice since the end of the Great Patriotic War, each time to test his behavior and implant improvements to the arm. The confusion each time has been severe, and it is a mercy really to spare him that pain. Now we have the ability to implant memories so he will wake a new man."

She wanted to vomit. She could hear the Captain's words echoing in her mind: _That's something you do to an enemy, not an ally, and certainly not a friend._

"Tomorrow, we will begin the process and thereafter you will have the bulk of his training. Make him a good one for us, Natalia. As good as you have always been."

"I will do my utmost, sir." Tomorrow. She had done more with less.

A giddiness filled her, desperate haste locked behind absolutely cool precision. There was no room for error. She left Lukin to his self-satisfied musings and made three stops. The first was to her room to collect a few things she would need. The second was to requisition a vehicle under Karpov's name. The third was to speak with Nikolai Constantin.

He looked at her under lowering eyebrows through the barrier of a door that locked from the outside. "What, the perfect Widow returns? Why do I deserve the honor of a visit? Are you here to tell me to 'do what I'm told?' and 'be a good little soldier for Stalin?' Well Stalin's dead and no one here is fit to clean his boots."

"I will get you out if you will help me."

"Is this a test? Or a death wish, little spider?" 

She pulled open the door. "Call it necessity. I have papers, money, a vehicle, but I need to steal something of value from Lukin and I can't do it alone." He loomed over her, excitement animating his face, and she nodded. "This is the plan…." 

✪

"I'd say you scrambled his brain taking him out early, but I hear it was already that way." Constantin barely grunted as he carried James out of the plain black sedan and settled him slumped against an oil drum next to some tarp covered crates. "This is not far if you don't want to be found. Not even out of the city."

"I'll manage." Natalia said and handed him a thick envelope. 

He opened it and clicked on a penlight to flip through the IDs, passports, currency from several different countries. All he needed was a few minutes and some photographs and he could be anyone. "Always nice to work with a professional. I hope to never see you again." 

She watched his headlights turn out of the yard before bursting into motion. Tugging away the tarp, she uncovered her personal motorcycle. Retrieving a crowbar she opened one of the crates with a crunch of wood, wheeling out the sidecar for the first time since she had acquired it. It had been a sentimental impulse that had led her to purchase it and she had berated herself many times for it over the years. She was grateful now. 

Hooking it up was the work of a moment. She retrieved the packet of papers and currency from the carrier, feeling the wrapping to make sure everything was as she had left it. Then, working carefully, she lifted James in a fireman's carry and gently deposited him into the sidecar. She settled him as comfortably as she could, tucked him in with a blanket, and put his helmet on, lowering the visor. Within ten minutes of their arrival, they were on their way.

They would need to stop. She would need to give James water and finish their IDs before they reached the border. And she did not know how he would react when he awoke. But first they needed to put many miles between them and the Red Room in a flat out run with no wasted subtlety. Constantin would be sure to abandon the sedan soon, but until then he would be laying a false trail and she needed every minute and kilometer of it.

Dawn chased them, breaking blue and gold over the Valdai hills. They had been driving for almost four hours when she finally stopped to give him water. His eyes were half lidded but did not focus on her, and she took what little satisfaction she could that he swallowed the water. She straightened the blanket again, tucking him in firmly, and then remounted the motorcycle, her own helmet in her hand. 

"This dream is terrible." His voice was hoarse and painful sounding. 

She spun to look at him. He was struggling with the blanket, uncoordinatedly trying to free his hands, looking with bewilderment at the metal that poked out of his cuff. She loosened the blanket for him and he moved to take off his helmet, yanking and completely missing the buckle. She unlatched that for him and gently lifted the helmet off. 

He blinked muzzily at her, the rising sun haloing him and giving his pallid skin a flush of color. "This is a terrible dream," he muttered again. 

"Yes, it is" she said, smiling ruefully. "We need to go, James." 

He was mouthing _James_ to himself as she settled his helmet back on. She left the visor up so she could see his eyes. 

Natalia was buckling her own helmet when he patted at her and said earnestly. "But it's getting better, now you're back. It's getting better."

She squeezed his shoulder well above the metal socket and then kicked the motorcycle alive with a rumble. She sped them toward the horizon, the sun at their back. It was getting better.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I have massaged details, the rocket research facility at Peenemünde is a real thing, as were the two Polish informants who smuggled out maps, drawings, and information about the facility to the Polish Home Army who got it to British Intelligence. The implication in the Wikipedia article is sadly that they were probably killed in Operation Hydra (August 1943) despite early warning because security was too tight for prison workers to leave the site (yathink?) and they were also barred from the air raid shelters. So. Yeah.


End file.
